LIBRARY OF COKGRKSS. 






^UNITED STATES OF AMKRICA. 



1 



^u'^ 



V 



POEMS 



BY 



BURR GRISWOLD HOSMER. 




RIVERSIDE PRESS: CAMBRIDGE. 
1868. 



. ■?3 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 

Burr G. Hosmer, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District 

of Massachusetts. 



CONTENTS. 



EARLY POEMS. 

The Magic of a Voice i 

A Farewell 7 

Ambition-fever lo 

An Epigram 14 

Seventeen Years Old 15 

A Child's Thought of Death ... 18 

By Request 20 

The Court of Death 23 

In an Album 28 

Under a Cloud 31 

Lake Leman 33 

SECOND PERIOD. 

Unison 37 

The Warrior and his Child .... 39 



IV CONTENTS. 

To Mary, who is Blind .... 41 

To A Mother 47 

To THE Same 50 

Good-bye to Germany 52 

At Ve\ ay 53 

Peace in America 55 

Destiny 59 

Schiller 61 

The Fear of Truth ..... 63 

Guidance 68 

Yearning 69 

A Travelling Patriot 71 

The Poet of Sentiment .... 72 

Melancholy 76 

Consolation 78 

Woman's Secret 80 

To Bertha 85 

An Invocation 87 

An Ode of Human Life .... 89 



CONTENTS. V 

THIRD PERIOD. 

Utterance loi 

The First Gray Hair .... 104 

Schiller and Goethe 106 

Elizabeth Browning and Italy . . . m 

To ANY Friend 113 

First and Last 114 

Roman Sonnets u^ 

The Life-secret 123 

Blest 126 

Pride 127 

Rescue from Sleep 128 

Mistaken 129 

The Poet's Mission 137 

Divorce in Marriage . . . . • 139 

Resolved 141 

Counsel and Cheer 144 

A Remembrancer 147 

Child-love 149 



VI CONTENTS. 

To A Critic 152 

Love 155 

TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. 

Prometheus 159 

The Divine 163 

My Goddess 167 



EARLY POEMS, 



THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. 

I. 
'ITT'EARIED and sickened by incessant 

din, 
By furrowed faces and the hurrying tramp 
Of avarice, I sought repose afar 
From the dense-crowded city thoroughfares, — 
A brief and precious season of deliverance 
To rest awhile in some sweet village, that 
Freedom from care, like a cool wave, should 

wash 
From off the arid surface of my heart 
Lines deeply traced by sufferance and toil. 



2 THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. 

II. 
There, as the sun was sinking to the verge 

And growing shadows lengthened o'er the road, 

The echoing music of the silver bell 

Drew me compliant to the house of prayer. 

But when the hymn the pious rustics sang 

Began to hush the tumult in my soul, 

Far up above the throng of duller tones 

Rose one keen strain of wildering melody. 

That soon exchanged the new-found peace 

within 

For anarchy and war. The organ's pomp, 

The practiced choir, I oft have heard, but they 

Were rude and earthy in comparison 

With the upsoaring of this simple voice. 

Relentless time will slowly petrify 

The impulses of youth. Nor time, nor age. 

Nor chill indifference ever can efface 

That image of ideal loveliness 



THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. 3 

Not seen with eye, but by the ear beheld. 
'Twas not the voice, although so glorious, 
Not it alone which thus enchanted me. 
But as the pilgrim, underneath that sky 
Which in its mournful beauty gazes down 
Upon the tomb of grandeur and of worth, 
From prostrate shaft and fallen capital 
Erects a temple, and, enraptured, views 
The victor's laurel and triumphal car j 
So I from part a lovely whole devised,. 
By restless fancy unresisting led. 

III. 
It was behind me, 'neath a pillar's shade ; 
The bird was hidden from my peering eyes 
Forth from whose throat the song delicious 

poured. 
The service ended, ere my hasty steps 
Had reached the place, the warbler rare had 

flown j 



4 THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. 

Yet crystal sound still lingered in my ears. 
'Twas soft and fresh, and told of rosy youth ; 
'Twas rich and full, betraying woman's charms — 
Between the bud and the expanded flower. 
'Twas sweetly clear, and told of firm resolve 
Attempered with a gentle reticence. 
Emotion, warmth, and self-oblivion 
Marked rise and fall and every varying note — 
Sure prophets of a true and tender heart. 
Affection's home, love's chosen resting-place. 
Love still unborn, yet ere its birth complete, 
Made every accent a melodious prayer 
By guileless lips to listening angels raised. 
Youth, beauty, love, and purity divine, 
A perfect whole, from fault and frailty free ! 

IV. 

At length descends wild Fancy from her flight, 
And dark-browed Reason meets her with a 
frown. 



THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. 5 

An idle dream which mocks and baffles hope, 
Eluding chase, engendering despair, 
Wise Reason calls it ; but a spirit-friend 
Knit to my heart in holy sympathy, 
Bids me preserve, deep-framed in mystery. 
Among the portraits hung on Memory's walls, 
This sketch, so delicately fanciful : 
Yet not pursue, lest near approach reveal 
A siren song, a worse than empty sound. 

V. 

The wretch distressed by hardship and by 

want, 
On scanty straw his wasted limbs extends ; 
While fierce desires create deceptive dreams. 
And ghostly joys beguile the cheerless night. 
Like him, am I by fair illusion blest. 
And shun that light which would divulge the 

truth. 



6 THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. 

'Tis good to nourish an ideal love, 
Howe'er conceived the cherished object be ; 
So do I pray that fate may not dispel 
The fancied charm, the fond remembrance, 
Which close infolds the Magic of this Voice. 



A FAREWELL. 

npmS bitter life is waning fast, 

A short but heavy sigh; 
Each opening day may be my last, 
I pine, and droop, and die. 

I had my hopes, but hope has flown, 

Desires, but they have fled; 
Ambition with my growth has grown. 

But dies ere I am dead. 

My brow has burned with fiery thought, 
Or swelled with conscious power ; 

The thorns I would have bravely fought. 
And must have gained the flower. 



A FAREWELL. 

I oft have felt a real distress 

At tales of fancied woe. 
Admired iinseen loveliness. 

And fought an empty foe. 

Give me but life, and from this pen 
Should flow a living stream, 

To make the old man young agam. 
To act, and love, and dream. 

Soothed is my temple's restless throb. 
And calm my blood's wild flow; 

Desires become a fretful sob — 
Spring flowers chilled with snow. 

The rising sun brought in the day. 
And painted bright the sky, 

But darkness drove the light away ; 
'Tis mom, yet eve is nigh> 



A FAREWELL. 

Reward that I shall never see, 
And hope, a long adieu ; 

You have been everything to me, 
And I am naught to you ! 



AMBITION-FEVER. 

T) RIGHT shines the sun, and blooming Na- 
ture smiles, 
But not for me. Content with humble lot 
The crowd exists and labors carelessly; 
But a fixt aim turned toward the upper air 
Which it attains not, breeds uncertainty 
And anguish much too fierce to be described. 
Through hideous transformation, genial warmth 
Becomes a parching heat ; soft, fanning winds 
Pierce like the blasts sent straight from icy 

pole, 
And tasks which duty sets are loathsome things. 
Even the man who speaks with friendly tone 
Is put aside, since at a glance I know 
That he and I can never sympathize. 



AMBITION-FE VER. 1 1 

Had Nature formed me with a niggard hand, 
Without some boon which else she freely gives, 
Made mine eyes sightless or my limbs de- 
formed j 
Did sickness rack me with a thousand throes ; 
Did want afflict, or envious fortune strew 
My course with clogs while neighboring paths 

were clear, 
Men then would pity, charity o'erflow. 
Though spared from these, a solitary pain, 
Unfelt by others, agonizes me — 
Ambition without power, a strong will 
Which always searching, foot-sore, finds no way. 
The Providence who rules this pendant earth 
And moulds all creatures in their proper sphere, 
Fits each unto its fellow and to all, 
Has stumbled ; or, with wanton cruelty, 
Bestowed desire, ability withheld. 



12 AMBITION-FEVER. 

By day and night this wish oppresses me, 
So rapt it overwhelms all other thoughts, — 
For greatness. Not a common name that lives, 
Then dimmer grows, then hides in musty tomes 
AVherefrom none care to brush the cobwebs off. 
But for enduring life, so high a throne 
Scarce one has sat upon, an eminence 
From which sweet soul-lit words should fly 
To fill dark hearts with holy radiance. 

Ambition ! man without thy torch were blind : 
A milder flame I should have fondly blest ; 
But such a wild and lurid blaze I curse 
With bitter curses. Leading madly on, 
Granting no respite ; by its awful spell 
Enchanting still, while faint from weariness 
I fall, and gaze with thirst unspeakable 
Upon the glistening rills its rays have shown 



AMBITION-FE VER. 1 3 

Far, far beyond. Ah, for the vanished days 
When boyhood dreamt in innocence, without 
This terrible awakening from sleep, 
This dreary sense of utter worthlessness ! 

A seer within forebodes an early death. 
I'd shudder not if I could be convinced 
There were no future state; for oftentimes, 
In spite of hope's angelic flash, I think 
A painless, passionless oblivion 
Far better than this life of scalding tears. 



AN EPIGRAM. 

Speak no evil — of the dead. 
1 j^ROM gentleness and kindness was this 
saying born, 
A noble sound to still reproachful cries, 
To ease the aching of a widowed heart forlorn, 
To drive away the swarm of carrion flies. 

Yet there 's a maxim truer, broader far than 

this; 

One that protects the living and the dead. 

The first three words more fully span the wide 

abyss ; 

The last three had been better left unsaid. 



SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD. 

'nr^HE stages of our life, old Shakespeare 
writes, are seven ; 
And yet, methinks, are only three, 
To us as universal heirloom given : 

Three grades of being therefore unto me, 
Who, if I live, by turns must be 
Each of these three. 

Youth is the first, then Manhood, fading Age 

the last; 
Thus man gains strength, thus spends it, thus 

decays. 
To-day methinks sweet Youth, life's happiest 

third, is past ; 



1 6 SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD. 

To-morrow leads me forth in Manhood's 

ways ; 
And then a pillar must I raise 
For future days. 

'Tis but a fancy, for I still am young and wild. 
Yet speaks a voice : " To-day is a brief space 
'Twixt joining states. But yesterday thou wert 
a child ; 
Neither to-day, or both ; soon, for time speeds 

apace, 
Thou shalt, a man with man's stern face. 
Run Manhood's race." 

And O, were dreams accomplished, wishes not 
in vain. 
When to these years I add an equal sum, — 
If so I may, some noble good, some glorious 
gain 



SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD. 17 

Should mark my name ; and then, when death 

shall come, 
Not even in the silent tomb 
Shall I be dumb. 



A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF DEATH. 

'nr^ HEY tell me that our life must have an 

end. 
My parents and my teachers say, that all 
Must at the last restore their breath to God, — 
That God who gave it. And, if all, then I 
Must also die ; then I that speak, and laugh. 
And run, and feel the gentlest joys and pains 
With such a quick sensation, shall in death 
Speak, laugh, and run no more — shall feel no 

more — 
Shall be a stone, a clod of earth. How 

strange ! 
How terrible ! And yet why all ? Men know 
The past, and from the past they guess, not 

know 



A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF DEATH. 19 

The future. All, ere many years, have died — 
Therefore all must. Perhaps the reasoning's 

false. 
I act and live : I should not deem it strange 
Could I, in spite of sage experience, 
Forever act and live ; longer at least 
Than other men. Not half so strange 'twould 

seem 
As this, that every night descends upon 
A host of human forms from whom the souls 
Are destined to depart before the morn: 
Leaving their friends, their homes, — forgetting 

love, 
And bidding hope farewell. O how I fear 
This dark, cold monster Death! So strangely 

cold. 
Inspiring such pervading fear, that I 
Will ever flee and artfully avoid ; 
And if at all, it shall be long before 
He seizes me, before I too must die. 



BY REQUEST. 

"^7*011 ask me to resume my pen, 

This pen awhile disused, 
Entreating with a voice and glance 

Which cannot be refused. 
If no high Muse at prayer of mine 

Will deign to smile from heaven, 
The humble gift that I possess 

To thee is freely given. 
For there is no more willing slave 

In earth or climes above, 
Than Poesy, when she performs 

The services of love. 

I write no eulogy, for that 
If false would be a curse : 



BY REQUEST. 21 

If true 'twould be but flattery, 

To deck my smirking verse. 
A few plain lines are ample space 

My wishes to express, 
Wishing for thee fresh life-long health 

And life-long happiness. 

Then mayst thou live as some have lived, 

While many more have failed, 
That life on earth accounted dull, 

In heaven happiest hailed j 
Glide calmly down the rushing tide 

Apart from storm and wave. 
Never resigning saving peace 

For change which cannot save. 
Yet though removed from worldly war 

Where passions rage and boil. 
Not mossing o'er with sluggish ease. 

But bright with gladsome toil. 



22 BY REQUEST. 

Thy gentle duties well performed, 

Mayst thou reward obtain 
In rich amends made to the heart 

For labor of the brain : 
That, cheered and cheering, thou mayst draw 

Unshrinking toward the close. 
Bounding with joy a human life 

Exempt from human woes. 



THE COURT OF DEATH. 

A Painting by Rembrandt Peale. 
1\ /r USING I stand before the painted poem, 
And learn its various lesson. In a cave 
"Where rocky sides exclude the glaring sun, 
King Death sits throned, whose kingdom is the 

world. 
A sable robe shrouds his mysterious form : 
His arm is lifted in command ; his foot 
Rests on a corpse ; his face is sternly just. 
The corpse is stretched across a ledge of rock ; 
Its head and feet touch the Lethean pool. 
There lately was a young and stalwart life, 
But it has fled at the decree of Him 
Against whom weak and strong alike are weak. 



24 THE COURT OF DEATH. 

Around the monarch are his ministers : 
Of these some work by violence ; the rest 
In busy quiet strew the mortal seed. 
' First strides the giant form of cruel War, 
In helmet, shield, and dripping sword arrayed ; 
Behind him dies the warrior ; beneath 
Widow and orphan lie in helplessness. 
Beside War, Conflagration rushes on — 
His guide and servant. And the lurid light 
Flung from her torches strikes upon the ground, 
And on Mars' shield, and on the widow's hair. 
And on the sombre cavern walls beyond. 
Thus Fire and Sword advance, and in their 

train 
Rank Pestilence and shrivelled Famine come. 

Unlike these monsters is the glowing form 
Of winsome Pleasure with her rippling hair. 
Who kneels close to the royal throne, and dips 



THE COURT OF DEATH. 25 

The maddening wine from out her brimming 

vase. 
Her incense rising veils the face of Death ; 
So that all men who love excess or ease 
Descry him not, though he is very near. 
With emptied cup the fated victim stands, 
His virtue yielding to the mighty charm. 
Sadly we mark the flight of temperance. 
And trace his drama to its tragic end. 
There bends Remorse in speechless agony ; 
With brain on fire, prostrate Delirium writhes ; 
Then rash Self-murder draws the dagger forth. 
And falls, awaited by that cunning fiend 
Who will not loose his clutch forevermore. 

Here congregate the shapes of foul disease. 
Death's most destructive agents. Hopelessly 
Consumption droops ; flushed Fever tossing 
lies ; 



26 THE COURT OF DEATH. 

Gout vainly totters toward the distant light ; 
Dismally crouches grim Despondency; 
While Apoplexy, struck with sudden shock, 
And bloated Dropsy, close the horrid list. 

Thence turn we now our shuddering sight to 

view 
The calm old man who nears his endless rest: 
Upheld by Faith, he gladly welcomes Death. 
Faith gazes upward with her angel eyes. 
In sad submission. Through his love for her 
And by her love, the patriarch is saved. 
His earthly mantle falls to earth. He feels 
A perfect joy before that awful throne. 
Death keeps the keys of Heaven, but God 

alone 
Rejects or grants ; and He is ever just. 
That well the old man knows, and this he 

knows : • 



THE COURT OF DEATH. 27 

Justice is mercy to the pure, for they 
Are cleansed from sin, and wait their sure re- 
ward. 



IN AN ALBUM. 

1 j^EW souls pass solitary through our life : 
For God has wrought a chain of sym- 
pathy 
Which binds us gently in its golden links, 
And draws us each to each, that we may help 
And cheer each other in this twilight world. 

But nothing here is firm : those who loved once, 
Love now no more ; or if the lapse of time 
Has left their hearts unchanged, an austere 

Fate 
Has stretched broad plains or rolled dark seas 

between ; 
Or, sadder yet, the hand of Death has seized 



IN AN ALBUM. 29 

A friendly soul, who, as a parting gift. 
Bequeathed his memory to us. Even they 
Who side by side stroll down life's narrowing 

vales, 
Tenderly treasure yon remembered scenes 
Which, when enjoyed, were not so fair as now 
The old man's fancy paints them. Thus the 

clouds 
Terraced on high above the sunken sun. 
Tinged by its light, are lovelier than was 
The sun itself in noonday majesty. 
For Time and Change are ceaseless workers, 

who 
From rough blocks of the present, ever build 
The shining temples of the mystic past. 

In twenty years — should you be spared so 

long — 
From some old trunk perchance, or dusty shelf. 



30 IN AN ALBUM. 

You will bring forth this book and leisurely 
Review its pages. Many names will be 
Scarcely remembered. You may sigh to read 
The vows of never-dying friendship, that 
Will then have been discarded and transgressed. 
Some who write here will be in distant lands. 
Some will be dead. If two or three remain 
Whose altered faces are familiar still, 
Perhaps 'twill start a silent tear to think 
How busy change has been these twenty years. 

A time-stained letter, or a lock of hair, 
Or some such trivial thing, can oftentimes 
Bring back the flying hours. So shall this book 
Have power, though faintly, to recall the rich 
Warm glow of early days ; and those kind eyes 
Which beamed so brightly twenty years ago. 



UNDER A CLOUD. 

IV /r ANY brave men whose hands have done 

no crime, 
Imprisoned by some tyrant conqueror, 
Have pined long years in dismal dungeon-cells, 
And looked through narrow windows at the 

world. 
You are a prisoner, and so am I : 
A cruel captor holds us fast, who by 
The arts of his infernal witchcraft makes 
The wide earth seem a hateful prison-house. 

But, though the radiance from without be 

dimmed, 
There is a light within entirely ours. 



32 UNDER A CLOUD. 

The heart can never cease to feel, till it 
Has wholly ceased to beat. Thus you and I, 
Thrown here together for a little while, 
Have met as strangers, and we part as friends. 

O, that when next we meet, — if meet we 

shall, — 
It may not be beneath a dungeon's roof. 
But under the free sky where we can speak 
Of those dark days that are forever gone ! 
Now let my heart whisper to yours, two words : 
The first is Hope ! the second is. Farewell ! 



LAKE LEMAN. 

T LOVE thee well when thou to heaven re- 
turnest 

The dancing glitter of the glad sunlight ; 
But, since this life is all so grave and earnest, 

I love thee better in the solemn night 

When moon and stars above are calmly shin- 
ing, 
And spirit-like the mountains stand around ; 
While the waves sleep, or gently wash their 
lining, 
Then voices speak, but voices with no sound. 
3 



34 LAKE LEMAN. 

They speak strong words of conscience and of 

duty, 
That hold me moveless in their mighty spell. 
They speak grand words of wisdom and of 
beauty ; 
But what the voices say, I cannot tell. 



SECOND PERIOD. 



UNISON. 

/^~^ WOE and joy, that mingled form our 
lot; 
And that men feel but do not understand : 
That sway our fortune with mysterious hand 

Through all the ages, and in every spot ! 

Now, in the kind embrace of friend or wife. 
The earth seems but a paradise of love, 
Until a blow falls on us from above 

And casts us down from ecstasy to life. 

Now, sorely wearied of this bitter strife. 

We drooping sink, and have no strength to 
rise. 



38 UNISON, 

Till some fresh impulse checks our languid 
sighs, 
And lifts us up from hopelessness to life. 

While coming creeds departing creeds destroy, 
To cheer and sadden us two truths we 

know : 
There is no joy which is not mixed with 
woe ; 
There is no woe which is not blent with joy. 

For bliss lasts but an instant at the best, 
And anguish never without balm is found ; 
And so, in light and shade alike enwound, 

We struggle forward to the final rest. 



THE WARRIOR AND HIS CHILD. 

A Painthig by Theodor Hildebrand. 
/^^'ER blood-moist sod the warrior rides, 

Through air all dense and dim ; 
Life shows, of its unnumbered sides. 
The sternest unto him. 

But now, far from such scenes removed, 

He clasps his gentle child ; 
His brow, severe and battle-proved. 

Grows gayly, childly mild. 

What sect before the infant's face — 

A cherub-face on earth — 
Shall dare assert the human race 

Is evil from its birth ? 



40 THE WARRIOR AND HIS CHILH. 
And what those baby-features show, 

Shows too the father's mien : 
That in all men the spirit's flow 
Is always to be seen. 

Many like him, by chance or art. 

Or fate, or toil, or sin, 
Have made a dungeon of their heart, 

And chained their soul within. 

But in that dungeon's deepest cell 
Burns love, a quenchless light. 

Which often bursts its hated spell 
To make the whole world bright. 

And throughout life, attack and scorn, 

Secure, it shall defy ; 
For Love, with Life together born, 

Can never separate die. 



M 



TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. 

EED which the soul of one can lay at 
the feet of another, — 
Wishes, and prayers, and hopes, faith and 
affection are thine. 
Yet I shrink to express these feelings in words, 
from misgiving 
That, though sensation is fresh, speech will 
be vapid and stale. 
Often already this chord has been struck, and 
most who now strike it 
Tamely reecho old tones, ringing from out of 
the past. 



42 TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. 

Lips of saints and of eloquent men, and the 
actions of heroes 
Chant a chorus subHme down through the 
aisles of the years — 
Chant the strain universal of mutual love and 
attraction, 
Voicing beforehand the notes I would fain 
utter to-day. 
For, though the intellect change and advance, 
the heart of all ages 
Thrills with the self-same thrill ; throbs with 
identical throb. 

Then to worthier mouths be every accent re- 
linquished, 
Which reverberates through all situations of 
life; 
While, with brotherly hand, I, soothing, touch 
on the sorrow 
That has visited thee with an exceptional lot. 



TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. 43 

Soon may this murky veil, excluding the splen- 
dor, be lifted ; 
And the science of man rescue the victim of 
fate ! 
Waiting, cherish this hope, but hoping, be still 
self-reliant : 
So shalt thou never despair, even if hope 

should delude. 
Sure of the present and past, we gently confide 

in the future ; 

But only seldom attain all that we wish , and 
expect. 
Over the plains of earth are scattered beautiful 
objects : 
Yet, more beautiful still, angels are hovering 
near. 
By the bodily sense is seen the sensual image ; 
Naught but ethereal glance views the ethereal 
form. 



44 TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. 

Who, of yon crowds that gape at the magic- 
lantern of Nature, 

Feels that the figures denote more than they 
seem to portray? 

These are the folks forsooth with healthy and 
vigorous eye-sight ; 
Children of Fortune are they, freely surveying 
the world ! 
Ah ! a holier gift is thine than these manikins 
dream of — 
Treasure of value untold, lying concealed in 
the breast. 
Open thine inward eye to catch the countless 
impressions, 
Which, since the gate is closed, eagerly swarm 
through the chinks. 
Of the ephemeral shapes may myriads flutter 
unnoticed ; 
But of the good and the true, nothing escape 
from thy ken. 



TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. 45 

For the substance of being lies always around 
and before thee ; 
Fate shall have power to cloud only the glitter 
and gleam. 

Comforting thoughts cannot always suppress 
that passionate longing 
For the water and sky, flowers, and faces of 
men. 
Whatsoever survives of unattempered affliction, 
Brook with unmurmuring heart and an invin- 
cible will : 
Knowing endurance ne'er fails its reward ; that 
firmness assuages, 
And that cowardice bears deadliest hatred to 
joy. 
Thou mayst find in the bible of grief, rich 
lessons of virtue — 
Jf thou hast courage to read ; if thou hast 
patience to learn. 



46 TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. 

Deeds have a magic force to seize and inspire 
the doer ; 
But the sufferer meets, sole and unaided, the 
shock. 
There is no scene so majestic, in any sphere 
of existence. 
As an enormous ill, calmly and cheerfully 
borne. 
Lo ! this glory is offered to thee, and dare thou 
but grasp it. 
Out of its depths shall arise blessings for thee 
and for all ; 
Then shall others who now, overladen with 
misery, falter. 
Grow, by gazing at thee, likewise submissive 
and brave. 



TO A MOTHER. 

A MAN may wander lonely toward his 
grave, 
And keep his faith, and still remain a man ; 
But woman's nature pines in solitude. 
And withers up, and loses hue and form. 

Happy is she, who while the heart is fresh, 
Has had her womanhood secured to her. 
She dates existence from the birth of love. 
And wonders how she used to pass the time ; 
Remembers well how sad she used to be ; 
And sees at last what those vague yearnings 
meant. 



48 TO A MOTHER, 

When, weary of its heavy self, the soul 
Stretched out its arms to clasp it knew not 

what. 

Love is a deep and strong awakening — 
A bright unveiling of the Possible ; 
But if that Possible be not attained, 
Then naught on earth remains for which to 
strive. 

The holy seal upon a woman's hopes 
Is to become the wife of him she loves ; 
For thus the many barriers that divide 
Are all, all swept away, and Death alone 
Can step between the lover and the loved. 

The harvest ripens in the warmth ; new life 
Begins to throb ; there sits upon her lap 
His child and hers, and waves its tiny hands. 
It is her former love grown visible, 



TO A MOTHER, 49 

To be the fuel of that calmer flame 
Which ever burnetii in a mother's breast. 

The future shall be hallowed from the past. 
When sorrow comes, let it be bravely borne ; 
For what the world can offer, thou hast known ; 
And what the heart can feel, thou too hast felt. 

Men lay their claim to higher faculties. 
And women seem to have a humble lot. 
But this loud-vaunted intellect of man 
Is a poor drudge, that toils through countless 

years 
To pile a gorgeous palace heavenward. 
And deck it out with gems of rarest art, 
That Peace and Joy may come and dwell 

therein. 



TO THE SAME. 

OHORT months ago I sought to frame thy 
joy 

In simple words, 
Which knew no more of threatening annoy, 

Than do the birds, 
That, fondly poising in the air above, 
Embathe in song the dwelling-spots they love. 

But while I prayed thee then to brave the ill 
Which time might bring, 

Lo ! at that moment, unannounced and still. 
On rapid wing. 

The fatal Messenger was drawing nigh. 

Commanding hope and happiness to die. 



TO THE SAME. 5 1 

The deepest joy becomes the deepest woe 

Through sudden loss : 
And yet, not they whose life-streams placid 
flow, 

Without a cross, 
Are to be envied; but far rather they 
Who see the lights and shadows of the way. 

The ancient sun diffuses a new light 

After a storm ; 
Never before appeared so fair and bright 

Each well-known form. 
And so shalt thou, when this black cloud has 

passed, 
Enjoy a holier happiness at last. 



GOOD-BYE TO GERMANY. 

'TT^HE panting steam-horse hurries me away, 
Yet, as I go, I turn a grateful gaze. 
And feel the pulsing of an honest praise 
Upon the morning of this farewell day. 



Still on my cheek is thy familiar breeze : 
I fondly linger, ever loth to part. 
Scarcely less dear art thou unto my heart, 

Than is my native home beyond the seas. 

My stay is done : so, too, may absence end ; 
And I revisit thee, fair Land of Thought, 
Beloved by one whom thou hast richly taught, 

And who regards his teacher as his friend. 



AT VEVAY. 

T ET suffering men who lack the second- 
sight, 
Which views the universal harmony 
Through Nature's many frowns and veils and 

masks — 
Let such come hither, that the friendly forms 
Of alp and lake may cheer their sombre hearts, 
And make them feel that which they cannot 
see! 

For those to whom each cloud is but the child 
Of a perennial sunlight, and to whom 
Order and beauty lay aside disguise, 
This lesson is not needed, and the scene 



54 AT VEVAY. 

Can tell them only what they knew before : 
But tells it sweetly, to a willing ear ; 
For Death, not Wisdom, severs earthly ties. 
And while we live, we are not wholly free. 



PEACE IN AMERICA. 

'TpHERE clanks a solemn music through the 

world 
Of chains that fall from many dusky limbs. 
There raises up its scarred and mighty head 
The Great Republic, radiant with toil. 
Our patience has received a recompense, 
And it is easy to be patient now. 

The morning of that day is come, whose course 
Shall see in fact what we beheld in dreams ; 
When what is overripe shall rot away. 
And kings shall perish piecemeal from their 

thrones, 
And man forget to fear his brother, man. 



56 PEACE IN AMERICA. 

The friends of progress in the older world 
With earnest gaze, for four impatient years 
Have watched the giant-conflict from afar ; 
And, waiting, have rejoiced to recognize 
In their own kindred on that other shore, 
A noble league of fearless laborers. 

But thou, America, who settest forth 

The incarnation of sublime ideas, 

In spite of all that thou hast undergone, 

Thou hast not gained the fuller freedom yet. 

True independence comes not from without. 

The name of freedom stamped upon the laws. 

And on the household speech of governors, 

Is lovely; but it cannot loose the bonds 

Of custom, superstition, prejudice, 

Which check the mind in its development, 

And cramp the deeper feelings of the heart. 



PEACE IN AMERICA. 57 

To reach the bliss of inner liberty 
Is the sole use of kings and commonwealths. 
When the exterior of the edifice 
Is finished, and the finer workmanship 
Of hall and chamber then alone remains, 
All governments, like scaffoldings, shall pass 
Into the lumber-room of history. 

The wonder-freighted Future marches on 
Resistless. Now this people, and now that, 
Is in the van. And as our planet-home 
Is not upheld with pillars, but is borne 
By unseen forces onward ; so our fate 
Rests not on human shoulders, but revolves 
Obedient to a grand necessity. 

Wisest philosopher who ever taught, 
Divinest poet who ever gladdened life, 



58 PEACE IN AMERICA. 

Sinks into feebleness, when he attempts 

To tell the secrets of futurity. 

Yet even we can pierce a little way 

Into the cloud, and view enough to make 

Our spirits sad with calm delight, at what 

Our children's children will not live to see, 

'Tis but a trifle which we can foreknow; 
Still, as a solace for our ignorance, 
We may build up our castles in the air. 
And build them ever trustingly, because 
In the vast circuit of the centuries, 
The Possible and Actual are one. 



DESTINY. 

"T^ROM out of Nature's fullness rises man; 
And all her forces are resummed in 
him. 
He is the offspring of the elements ; 
And not a creature moves that is not bound 
By ties of close relationship to him. 
The sunlight is reflected in his heart ; 
The passing rain-cloud casts a shadow there; 
And all the pulses of the universe 
Find there at last their truest, fullest throb. 

Man's happiness lies in this harmony — 
In the surrender of himself to all, 
And in receiving charity from all. 



6o DESTINY. 

He draws his joys from many a generous 

source, 
Whilst he obeys the omnipresent Law, 
And lives in love, in justice, and in use. 
He cannot be a hermit if he will ; 
And if, through guilt or ignorance he break 
A single one of those unnumbered strands 
Which hold him to the common centre, he 
Must make atonement to the very Law 
Whose iron rectitude he violates. 

So from mysterious regions unto me. 

The river glides upon whose brink I dwell. 

It is the river of my destiny : 

For in its gentle motion I rejoice ; 

And in its purity, myself am pure. 

But tremble at each troubling of the stream. 

And when it ceases flowing, I must die. 



SCHILLER. 

QEARCHING adown the history of man, 
I find a rising, self-perfecting soul, 
And restless thoughts and deeds that on- 
ward roll, 

And, underneath, a never-changing plan. 

Removed apart, beyond the deafening din, 
The poets encourage and inspire the rest; 
Giving to those who comprehend them best, 

Pity for weakness and contempt for sin. 

Even among these forms so high and pure, 
For me this form stands separate and alone ; 



62 \S CHILLER. 

And speaks to me in sweeter, clearer tone 
With more of power to comfort and to cure. 

Others surpass in knowledge of the heart, 
In deep world-wisdom, and in subtle wit ; 
This man unveils, in all that he has writ, 

A stainless nature linked to blameless art. 

Through doubt and trust I travel ; here I find 
A poet gifted with the holy fire ; 
With all broad love, with every pure desire, 

And with an angel soul and giant mind. 



THE FEAR OF TRUTH. 

'' I ^HERE is, for almost every man that 
breathes, 

The soUtary aim of happiness ; 

And if he do not think to find it here, 

He seeks it in a Kfe beyond the death. 

His hopes and fears have made him circum- 
spect, 

But hinder him from being truly good ; 

Since goodness, self-regardless, does the right, 

And never stoops to calculate results. 

A mystic proverb has come down to him 
That what he chases never can be caught 
But waits for such as are not covetous. 



64 THE FEAR OF TRUTH. 

Yet still he hunts, for though he blindly trusts 
In many fictions of his fantasy, 
He has no courage for the larger faith. 
Which, born of wisdom, compasses the world. 

Under those blows which cannot be escaped 

Whoso has learned to suffer, suffers least ; 

But he who fears to suffer, adds his fear 

To the full weight of other suffering. 

And yet we curse ourselves with cowardice, — 

Whether avoiding an unwelcome truth, 

Or giving ear to an agreeable lie. 

A mother, comforted in widowhood 
By boyish talk and merry, careless eyes, 
Watches with breathlessness the ripening man ; 
And, as his voice grows deeper, hears again 
The father's tones in fresher melody. 



THE FEAR OF TRUTH. 65 

Meanwhile come friends to her with serious 

mien, 
Telling grave tales of worse than levity, 
And bidding her exert her gentle sway 
To mould his passions, ere it be too late. 
And she is startled at each new report ; 
But, at the sight of that fair, open face, 
Forgets her fears, and cannot even doubt ; 
And lets him rule her, as he always did — 
Until the fatal stroke falls suddenly; 
And she lies crushed beneath an infamy. 
That has been fostered by her over-love. 

A dreamer, not suspecting that he dreams. 
Surrounds himself with phantom images. 
Transmitted downward from his ancestors. 
But burnished and recolored by himself 
He peoples the celestial depths with forms 
Created from analogies of earth — 
5 



66 THE FEAR OF TRUTH. 

A God, controlling like a mortal king ; 

Angels in human bodies, glorified ; 

Places of chastisement and recompense, 

And other copies of our daily life. 

In this, his phantom-world, he finds support, 

Though feeble and oft failing to his needs. 

Clinging to this, in fear to follow thought 

On its dim journey through the distant wilds, 

He rises never to that calm remove 

From whence philosophy surveys the creeds. 

Let us repose in Nature's unity, 
Where Truth and Gladness stand in brother- 
hood ; 
Where, like the earth, our destinies advance : 
Like it, not lost, although no trail is left 
Upon the space through which it wanders on ! 
O sacred Truth, receive us unto Thee, 
That we may lose in Thee our puny wills, 



THE FEAR OF TRUTH. 67 

And know no other hopes and fears than 

Thine ! 
Then, while we Hve, it is a hero's life ; 
And when we fall, it is a martyr's death. 



o 



GUIDANCE. 

UR will is free ; our strength is bound : 
And it is well, 
If we but can endure the sound 
Of the deep knell 
Of sentiments which pass into their grave, 
And which no loving vigilance could save. 

Unto the conscience and the brain 

Of every man. 
Are joined the labor and the pain, 
Forming the plan 
Which checks his straying, like a watchful 

friend. 
And guides him firmly to his journey's end. 



YEARNING. 

T T 7E all desire 

To do the right; 
We all aspire 

To reach the light 

Our senses fill 
In sacred hours 

With the sweet will 
Of higher powers. 

I hear the call, 
But do not stir; 

Though fain to fall 
A worshipper. 



7© YEARNING, 

I hear the song 

But cannot speak; 
For life is strong, 

And I, — how weak ! 



A TRAVELLING PATRIOT. 

'\/'0U love your native country truly 

With even passion-heat ; 
While spurning other lands unduly 
Where'er you set your feet 

A patriot so very zealous 

Turns virtue into vice ; 
You surely are a little jealous, 

To be thus overnice. 

Whoever seeks the truth and beauty 

Which lie on every hand, 
Will never waver in his duty 

Toward his native land. 



THE POET OF SENTIMENT. 

'T^HE artist holds a trust 

Of priceless worth ; 
To save it from the dust 
Of common earth. 



But clouds of hostile fate 

Obscure the goal, 
And many snares await 

The poet-soul. 

His heart of gentle beat 

Is lured astray 
By all things fair and sweet 

That fringe the way. 



THE POET OF SENTIMENT 73 

His mind of lofty build 
Reveals the taint * 

Of being too self-willed 
To bear restraint. 

Whene'er the poet-soul 

Meets pain or wrong, 
He struggles to control 

Himself with song. 

His fellow-creatures steal 

Joy from his pang; 
Heedless that he must feel 

The grief he sang. 

We love his tuneful flow 

Of rhythmic speech ; 
Still, what we yearn to know. 

He cannot teach. 



74 THE POET OF SENTIMENT. 

O poet, cease thy cries 

Of passive pain ; 
And, in thy might, arise 

And rend thy chain ! 

Instead of vain lament 

Exhausting youth, 
Let thy rich Hfe be spent 

In serving truth. 

Then shall thy verse forsake 
Its plaintive chime. 

And rapturous awake 
To strains sublime. 

O'er age, when youth is done, 

No dark regrets ; 
But radiance from a sun 

That never sets. 



THE POET OF SENTIMENT 75 

There shall be less distress 

Than heretofore, 
When men make poetry less. 

And live it more. 



MELANCHOLY. 

/^~\ SEA, that liest there so smilingly, 

Thy beauty cannot cheer me, but be- 
guiles 

To drown my sorrows evermore in thee. 

A single plunge into thy friendly blue, 

A single struggle for farewell, and then 

A spirit all-familiar with despair 

Would rest at last, whelmed in a dreamless 
sleep. 

As thou, O Sea, in hours of peacefulness, 
Reflectest back the glories of the sky 
By day and night ; so, too, upon my soul 
Were imaged in the former time, the joy 



MELANCHOL Y. 77 

And harmony that overshadowed it. 
But as thy mirror shivered by the wind 
Loses its virtue, and we vainly search 
Amid the waxing chaos of the waves 
For tossing stars or bits of broken cloud ; 
So now my soul has lost its tranquilness, 
And represents a black and shattered sea, 
With here and there a flake of light upon it. 



CONSOLATION. 

'' I ^HERE is a pang that makes us shriek 

with pain ; 
There is a weight that presses out our lives ; 
And, O, there is despair, exceeding both ! 
While I am sitting statue-like in grief, 
Up through the window floats the merry shout 
Of children, and the busy hum of men. 
Our aches are ours, and the world goes on 
As once it did before our birth, and as 
It soon shall do when we have passed away. 
Each one of us is but a speck upon 
This speck of earth, and round him flame the 

stars. 
Exhaustless in its possibilities, 



CONSOLA TION. 79 

The universe takes little note of him, 
And of his needs, his wishes, and his groans ; 
But moves forever on its stately course. 
When the sad heart grows large enough to feel 
The grandeur of the mansion where it dwells, 
It shall be shamed of its complaints, and made 
Far happier in its insignificance 
Than ever it has been in shadowy pride. 
For all the rapture which the longing soul 
Has whispered to itself in dreamful hours. 
Lies treasured up in endless space and time. 



WOMAN'S SECRET. 

T T is easier to explain 

Where man's excellences lie — 
In his mightiness of brain ; 
In the energies that reign 
From the palace of his eye. 

Woman, looking up to him 
With a conscious self-distrust, 
Loves to think that his *Thou must,' 
Though it be the merest whim. 
Is a purpose wise and just. 
She does not quite understand 
Why the master turns aside, 
At the beckoning of her hand, 



WOMAN'S SECRET. 8 1 

From the idols of his pride — 
From his forays far and wide ; 
Asks herself what power is hers, 
Which can vanquish vanquishers. 
Or, at seasons, growing vain. 
Counts as her most precious gain, 
Not the soft, mysterious charm 
Gushing from a hidden source. 
But some share of ruder force, 
Competent for working harm. 

Man, in arrogance of lore, 
Wearisomely fabricates 
Inventories of her traits ; 
But, if haply begged for more, 
Piteously hesitates. 

As in all things, so in this, 
Is an essence which evades ; 
6 



82 WOMAN'S SECRET. 

Which we grasp at but to miss, 
Which, receding, slowly fades. 
If we may not clearly find 
What we seek with sober mind. 
Specially must we resign 
Hopes of comprehending these 
Beings, whom we intertwine 
With our joys and miseries — 
Objects of our fondest wish. 
Half ourselves, and half-divine, 
Or, at times, half-devilish. 
Never can we analyze. 
Where we warmly sympathize. 

Let us call her to our aid. 
And beseech her to reveal 
Treasures, she abashed, afraid, 
Seems to carefully conceal. 
Then expectantly we wait 
At her spirit's inner gate. 



WOMAN'S SECRET. 83 

Yet, while there we stand and knock, 
Through the lattices we see 
That the hand which holds the key, 
Is too weak to turn the lock. 

She, reluctant, must confess 

That, if man but little knows, 

She is speechless to disclose ; 

Or indeed knows even less 

Of the cause, which round her throws 

Such a loveliness. 
So o'erhead the starry belt 
Gives that thought of high repose, 
We more brokenly express. 
The more truly it is felt 

In its endlessness. 

Deep and tender woman-heart, 
None has ever fathomed thee ; 



84 WOMAN'S SECRET. 

Veiled in secrecy thou art — 
An inseparable part 
Of immensity ! 



TO BERTHA. 

'T^HOU art a creature meant for happiness 

and love ; 
Almost too delicately framed for human life 
With its sublime and difficult necessities. 
Of late a dark unrest is brooding over thee ; 
Vainly the future calls aloud with wondrous 

words, 
Which only seem to echo hopes now forfeited. 

Despair not yet ! There never was a loyal soul, 
With modest bravery for doing noble acts — 
Not one, that had not suffered such an ordeal. 
Grief is the crown of education : it alone 
Can give an angel touch to mortal waywardness. 



S6 TO BERTHA. 

Become more firm and patient ! Then affliction 
shall 

Be like a grim and solemn gate way, that con- 
ducts 

From out the sultry sunshine of the dusty road, 

Into a spacious garden's fragrant shadiness. 



AN INVOCATION. 

'T^HE gleam of water has a weird control 

Over that undiscovered gnome, who lurks 
Within the secret caverns of my soul, 

And there accomplishes his hidden works. 

Ye heights, steep-shelving to the water's edge. 
Ye hoary-crested Alps, magnificent, 

Thou blue, blue lake, I crave a lasting pledge 
Which shall remind of faery hours here 
spent. 

I cast myself before thee, beauteous lake, 
And watch thy ripples plashing near my feet ; 

Almost can their unsullied coolness slake 
The inward thirst, — the buried, inward heat. 



SS AN INVOCATION. 

Here at thy marge, I offer up this prayer: 
May I grow stronger in the power to see, 

Through every change of fortune, everywhere, 
The glory which I now behold in thee. 



AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 

I. 

T N the hush of a midsummer night, 

I sit at the window, and gaze 
Out into the gloom-shrouded green 
Of the trees standing spectral and dumb ; 
And up at the glittering stars. 
Strewn thick in the fathomless sky. 

And I hear the low rush 
Of a streamlet, that speeds 
To be whelmed in the lake. 

II. 

Sensation is wafted to me 

With the sheen of those marvelous stars ; 

With the gurgling dash of the brook ; 



90 AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 

With the breath of the midsummer wind 
That flutters the dew-laden leaves. 

As bright as the stars ; 

As fresh as the brook ; 

As soft as the breeze, 
Are the spirit-pulsations that come, 
And, doffing their steel-plated mail — 
The armor of logical thought, 
Which encased and encumbered them long 
They cosily nestle to rest, 
Content, after roaming forlorn, 
At last to find welcoming love, 
And a home in the bosom of man. 

III. 
Mankind is the perfectest fruit 
Attained by his planet, the earth ; 
Where the gradual, measureless might 
Of aeons, has wrestled and wrought. 



AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 9^ 

He is joined of two halves : 
The one is of self, 
Which tinctures the whole, 
But is ever shut out 
From all aid but its own. 
The other is part 
Of the world where he dwells ; 
And rivets the twinge 
Of his woe and his bliss. 
To the fate-fettered fate, 
Its primitive fount. 

IV. 

I am one with my brothers, the trees ; 
I am one with my sister, the brook : 
One with them, but greater than they; 
One with them, yet king of them all. 

This streamlet that skips 

With musical gush 



92 AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 

Toward its grave in the lake, 
Is the type of my soul, 
Which is soon to be merged 
In the infinite soul — 
In the soul of the world. 

V. 

The rivers roll on to the sea, 
And the summer and winter go round. 
Mankind is composed 
Of atom-like grains, 
That diverge, reunite, 
And, perishing, turn 
Renewed and refreshed. 
To do their brief work ; 
Then to perish again. 
The ages glide by, and are wreathed 
In the glimmering haze of the past ; 
The rivers still roll to the sea. 
And the seasons go sound as of yore. 



AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 93 

VI. 
The Universe, mother of all, 
Would gather us closely to her. 
We read a dark light in her eyes ; 
And, trembling, try to escape. 

Thence arises the war 

Between better and worse 

In every breast: 

A feud that begins 

With the earliest lisp, 

Nor ever deserts 

The tottering step, 

Foreheralding death. 

VII. 
One often may utter a word 
That shall flash to a hesitant friend 
Divine inspirations of hope. 
Commingled with grateful surprise. 



94 AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 

But the battles are still to be fought 
In the secret — each man with himself. 

From this strife are evolved 

All science and art; 

All religion and thought — 

The triumphal ascent 

To a nobler than we, 

Whose germ we contain ; 

Who shall rule in our stead. 

VIII. 
If yonder, 'mid luminous realms 
That glisten far out in the night, 
And thrill us with rapturous thoughts 
Which naught but the boundless can give 
If there, living creatures abide, 
They may not approach us to help. 
Nor may they receive us to them. 
They are girt by like ties with ourselves. 



AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 95 

And march upon similar paths. 
It cannot be otherwise ; since 
The particles only are changed ; 
The circling frame is complete. 
And distance and space are annulled 
By Nature's omnipotent sway. 

IX. 
O man, the sole being I know, 
Where discords in harmony blend ; 
Mayst thou burn with a holy unrest 
To mount through a limitless scale ; 
Preferring blind mazes of doubt 
To complacency, Eden of brutes ! 
And seek as the ancients have sought, 
At the eve of philosophy's birth \ 
When the brawl of the dissolute gods 
Their elders obeyed and adored, 
Crashed harsh on the ears of the youth. 



96 AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 

From brave ancestors, we 
Inherit a sword. 
We busily con 
Its workmanship rare ; 
Professors expound 
The laws of its use ; 
Yet none, save the hero. 
Can wield it aright. 

X. 

At this moment how abject appears 
The care for a pigmy repose ! 
How easy it seems, to endure 
Earth's transient and vapory ills; 
Contributing gladly one's mite 
To the vista of beckoning years ! 

There is truce in my breast 
Between truculent foes. 
I move at the mandate 
Of conscience, — the grand 



AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 97 

Centripetal force 
That draws to the point, 
Around which our life, 
In its glory, revolves. 

My self-hood sinks dwindling down — 

Drags with him his progeny, fear : 

I trip on a silvery thread 

Athwart the abysses of hell. 

XI. 
The darkness wears on to the dawn : 
I know that the morrow will come. 
And the midsummer sultriness drop 
Direct from the midsummer sun. 
The sleeper will yawn in his bed ; 
The laborer trudge to his toil. 
For me too the lustre shall fade. 
And I be distressed and perplexed 
By the carking vexations of noon. 
7 



98 AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 

I challenge the test : 

Our problem is life. 

The visions we see, 

And the thoughts that we think, 

If they cannot assist 

To give vigor to action 

Or music to speech — 

To bequeath to the future 

Some blameless delight — 

They are phantasms fit 

To be buried unwept. 



THIRD PERIOD. 



UTTERANCE. 

T T OW fine is feeling, 

And how rough is speech ! 
How, through the gossamer 
Of reverie, 

The rude word bursts, 
And shatters it amain ! 

Ah, when shall language rise 

Above its stammering? 

How long shall every foremost mind 

Despise the word ; 

While, from the need 

Of intercourse. 

Still wooing it ? 



102 UTTERANCE, 

The God within, 
Striving to speak 
With human mouth, 
Recoils from discord 
He has made. 
Perfect musician, he ; 
But base his instrument. 

Yet patience schools 
The voice at last, 
To sweetly hint 
Its birth divine. 

O peace-restoring Art 

That givest to the formless, form, 

And to the voiceless, voice — 

Mouldest deformity 

Into a sterner loveliness ; 

Even as Nature rounds 



UTTERANCE. 103 

Her wayward shapes 
To symmetry! 

The arts receive 

The natural man ; 

And educate him, step by step, 

Unto the master-art — - 

The art of Life. 

Afar behind expression, hides 

The thing to be expressed. 

Deep underneath all that we do, 

And all we seem, 

Lies what we feel ; 

And what we feel, we are. 



THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 

T CAUGHT her standing close before 

The mirror there ; 
And saw her wince, as she espied 

Her first gray hair. 

Her life has heretofore been dimmed 

By scarce a spot; 
As bright as life can ever be, 

Where love is not. 

No wonder, fortune mazing her 

With wizard wand. 
She half forgot that she was held 

In Nature's hand — 



THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 105 

That as each labor-hour earns rest 

From weariness, 
So careless gayety stores up 

Its dreariness. 

Ah ! radiant face, still lit with youth, 
What means this cloud ? 

Or couldst thou utter, if thou wouldst, 
Thy thoughts aloud? 



SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 

'^ I ^WIN master-spirits of the modern time ! 

As they in Ufe 
Labored together for the truth, 
And now in monument 
Together stand on Weimar's street ; 
So they, in men's remembrances, 
Repose together. 

Alike and different; 

As, side by side, two trees 

Each in itself complete ; 

Yet with that brotherhood which cannot fail 

In whate'er springs from the same soil. 

Through the same air, 

Toward the same sky. 



SCHILLER AND GOETHE, 107 

One later born and earlier dead j 

Departing ere the years 

When youthful faith and ardor yield, 

In retrospective calmness, 

A rewarding peace. 

Him do we love for what he was, 

And mourn for what he could not be. 

There is no dualism in his song : 

The poet and man are blended into one. 

His is the genius of great truthfulness — 

Too real for mere respect, 

Too warm for veneration. 

While we read him, he is with us 

In his own pure self. 

And lifts us to the level where he dwells. 

I gaze into his face 

And call him friend. 



lo8 SCHILLER AND GOETHE, 

By him this other stands, 

Sterner somewhat, and worldlier than he ; 

But with a larger wisdom. 

Whoso to-day neglects to learn 

From this man's teaching, 

Likewise omits to grasp 

The era in whose midst he breathes. 

The artist militant ! 

Who led mankind from gray philosophies 

And weary gropings in the chilly mist. 

Back to the busy, sober noontide light 

And opened human eyes. 

And bade them gaze with trust 

Upon the world, their home. 

One of those rare and royal minds 
Who, down across the gulfs of time, 
Link out a chain of progress through 



SCHILLER AND GOETHE, 109 

Our planet's troublous history. 
And hence does he, as long as he remains 
The first of modern men, 
Stand out to view, the wisest of all men 
That were and are. 

But thou dear friend again, 

Whose footfall ceased 

Upon the threshold of our century ; 

Yet whom we daily recognize 

In aught of best and bravest 

That this earth contains : 

Even as a poet, 

Mayst thou sustain comparison with all. 

What though another show, perchance, 

A richer culture or a deeper lore t 

Still foldest thou all poetry in thy heart ; 

Since noblest poetry is nothing else 



no ♦ SCHILLER AND GOETHE. 

Than passionate devotion to the right, 
Seeking expression. 

And so they each, the teacher and the friend. 
Hold in my innermost a separate place — 
A separate place upon a common throne. 



ELLZABETH BROWNING AND ITALY. 

T TROD the galleries, where men long dead 
Have left their souls on canvas or in 
marble ; 
And, passing down, came by a house that bears 
A tablet with warm words of gratitude. 
Which time has not as yet allowed to cool. 

'Twas here she dwelt. Twas not unmeet that 

she 
Should dwell near Raphael's pictures. He, a 

man 
With woman's tenderness, was more a man ; 
And she a woman, with a man's free sight, 
A truer woman. As it must ever be 
That noblest souls transcend the bounds of sex. 



1 1 2 ELIZABE TH BRO PFJV/A G AND ITAL V. 

A fitting link between the old and new — 
This artist-woman's earnest, fruitful life. 
A hint that Florence is not all entombed 
With Angelo ; but that in present soil 
There lives, perhaps, the seed of future growth. 
For, though of English birth, her home was 

here ; 
Here too she wrote, and here she ceased to 

write. 
And, by the love she bore to Italy, 
Has Italy a lasting claim on her. 

Be this, O Florence, unto thee a sign ! 
A happy omen of thy future, since 
A poet's love cannot entirely err. 



TO ANY FRIEND. 

A "X ^HILE journeying each upon a separate 
track, 
Each aiming upward toward a chosen star, 
Your better self in me greets from afar ; 

My better self in you sends answer back. 

Although divided, are we not alone, 
But bounden ever to a common state ; 
Since part of you in me, shares in my fate, 

And part of me in you, shares in your own. 



FIRST AND LAST. 

I. 

/'^NE mountain-monarch pierced beyond all 
summits that surrounded him, 

To where, above in virgin space, mute air and 
sunshine bounded him. 

The lesser mounts, clustering around in vener- 
ation underneath, 

Were touched with awe and wonder at the 
rumblings of the thunder-breath 

They took for tokens of his wrath ; or, in their 
snowy bright array. 

Were moved with meekest gratitude at the 
down-flooding light of day 



FIRST AND LAST. 115 

Which had its source and home, they thought, 
in his unmatched sublimity: 

Thus were they in their simpleness creators of 
infinity. 

Triumphant in the unapproached enjoyment of 
his regal pride, 

He towered forth with blinding splendor, rever- 
enced and deified. 

11. 
Then, from the noiseless centuries that glided 

o'er his skyey throne. 
The demi-god learned by degrees how sad it 

is to be alone. 
The burthen of his majesty weighed heavier on 

him year by year ; 
A solitary future loomed before, immeasurably 

drear. 
So rose the demon Envy up, devouring every 

other mood. 



1 1 6 FIRST AND LAST, 

Envy toward all the happy members of yon 
white-robed brotherhood 

Of peaks beneath, who comfort found in the 
supreme preeminence 

Of one that yearned to be with them, but stood 
aloof in impotence. 

Poured deep below in antic flow, bright brook- 
lets tinkled merrily ; 

Fresh flowers grew of blithesome hue, green 
valleys nestled cheerily. 

As though in mockery of him who reigned aloft 
so wearily. 

III. 

When suddenly a vivid gleam, as from a per- 
fect sun, is shed, 

And unannounced a silent voice pervades the 
spaces overhead : 



FIRST AND LAST. 1 17 

** Hearken ! for this the secret is of heaven's 

own tranquillity — 
Not to look down in haughtiness, but upward 

in humility." 
The mountain-spirit raised his glance, which, 

through innumerable days, 
Wholly concerned with lower things, he always 

had forgot to raise. 
Flashed keen on his astounded sight celestial 

glories near and far, 
And hovering groups of seraph-friends that 

floated on from star to star. 
Perceived himself in converse drawn by beings 

of a loftier birth. 
Who graciously admitted to their fold this king- 

liest of earth. 
The sovereign, changing frigid pomp for a 
divine tranquillity. 



Il8 FIRST AND LAST. 

Looks earthward now in tenderness, and heav- 
enward in humility ; 

And knows that not the power to rule below, 
but the right to serve above. 

Is the chief use and excellence of greatness, 
and grandeur's crown of love. 



ROMAN SONNETS. 

I. 
"13 ELIGION finds consummate voice in art ; 
And, as religion grows refined and clear, 

So likewise do the higher arts appear. 
Moulding by turns the plastic human heart. 
The Grecian sensuous beauty sought a vent 

In sculpture : with its death, sculpture died. 

Later in Italy painting supplied 
The void, until the ardent faith which lent 
Unto its handmaid,- art, the power to live. 

Itself expired. We moderns should not need 
Aught that Italian Vaticans may give ; 
Or, if we pine for them, it is because 

We linger dallying with some siren creed. 
And let the world roll past us while we pause. 



I20 ROMAN SONNETS. 

II. 

The Apollo and Laocoon remain 

Unmarred ; nor doth their lustre fade ; 

But we, ascending far beyond their aid 
Touch rarer regions of delight and pain. 
From deeper fountains our emotions rush, 

Forsaken are the channels free and straight ; 

Our life is grown too complex and too great 
To be portrayed by chisel or by brush. 
Lovers of art mark by their aim of love 

Their own advance. We have not the broad 
view 
Our heirs shall gain, though we are borne 

above 
Those former centuries. Pictures and statues 
then 

Were soul-sufficient ; now a poem holds true ; 
The future will send forth a cry for men. 



ROMAN SONNETS. 12 1 

III. 
Our age, beheld sublimely, is sublime. 

Beneath the clatter of its trampling feet 

Lives an idealism too com^Dlete 
To have existed at an earlier time. 
Upon this firm foundation shall arise 

The finer culture of the age to come. 

Progress is eloquent, but Rome is dumb ; 
Obsolete wisdom cannot make us wise. 
In turning hence, let me not seem to spurn 

An ancient treasure's passionate behest ; 
I who have much, — so endless much, — to 

learn. 
Yet elsewhere seek with confidence sincere 

The place and labor that can teach me best. 
Where'er they be, 'tis sure they are not here. 



122 ROMAN SONNETS. 

IV. 
Both Romes are sunk in ruin. What have T 
To do with ruin ? While I draw my breath 
I wish not to anticipate my death 
By letting any portion of me die. 
Listless I gaze on the dismantled helm 

Which veered the world ; listlessly notice, too, 
How a monastic fervor overgrew 
The splendors of yon half-barbaric realm. 
A tourists' toy-shop now, and faint stronghold 
Of the proud church that once made Europe's 
law ; 
Still crowned, but paralyzed, with blood run 

cold. 
Farewell O Rome ! I go where duller skies 
Breed hardier, trustier men, and where the 
raw 
Sharp air nips off the wanton growth of lies. 



THE LIFE-SECRET. 

XT EITHER by study 

At home, 
Nor by argument 
In the club, 
Discover we 
The lucent core 
Of everything. 

Tirelessly, vainly, 
Mankind has striven 
To delve to it 
With thought, 
Or plunge upon it 
With faith. 



124 THE LIFE-SECRET. 

Our age is wiser : 
We shoulder burdens, 
Whose contents we ask not ; 
And, after the labor. 
Receive at each sunset. 
Grateful, the guerdon. 

This much at last 
We are come to know; 
That, not in books. 
Nor in cigar-smoke, 
Nor yet in human brain, 
Speaks the world-secret. 

That life is in living ; 
For all men different, 
Even as their blood 
Flows separated ; 



THE LIFE-SECRET. 125 

Not one secret, 
But innumerable. 

Defied of the essence, 
Our intellects compass 
Only the semblances ; 
While the soul tingles 
With the arch-mystery, 
And carries it entire. 

Highest life is best living, -r- 
Less search, less evasion j 
A simpler acceptance 
Of merited bounty ; 
Joy strong for reverses, 
An^ sorrow awaiting 
Supreme consolation. 



BLEST. 

/^"^ AYLY our childhood's years, 

Flow on through laughter, fears, 
And sunlit tears. 



And fortunate are they 
Who thus, through life's long day, 
Are borne away. 

But blest alone are those 
That, having grieved, repose 
From million woes. 



PRIDE. 

O INCE only few can be 

Endowed with symmetry ; 
Since fault is unreprest, 
'Twere better all the rest 
Should err upon the side 
Of an impatient pride. 
For pride begets intense, 
Robust self-confidence ; 
While trust is kept in pawn 
By modesty o'erdrawn. 
Conceit is oft unwise ; 
Mistrust doth paralyze. 



RESCUE FROM SLEEP. 

A S when an artist, poring on his work 

For hours and hours, loses at length 
the lines, 
Seeing them melt to mist before his eyes. 
And then, for vividness, perforce goes out 
To draw upon the well-springs of his life ; 
So, wanting change, our faculties grow dull, 
Till that great Power a part of whom we are. 
Watchful removes us to another scene. 
And thus will He not suffer happiness 
To lull its helpless darlings into sleep. 
But rescues them betimes, that discipline 
May animate them for a fresh delight. 



MISTAKEN. 

T NTERLAKEN ringed with mountain glories 

Interlaken in the tide of summer j 
And a graceful, gracious western maiden 
At my side. 

Her existence had been long united, 
Not by tie of passion nor of duty, 
But by softly t^vining, love-tinged friendship. 
To my own. 

Chatted we of homes beyond the ocean ; 
Turned to Europe ; wondered when our Her- 
bert- 
He my noble friend, and Emma's lover. 
Would arrive. 
9 



130 MISTAKEN, 

Then approached a servant with a letter. 
Emma broke it : " Herbert writes from England, 
And to-morrow evening at the latest, 
Will be here." 

Nothing more she told me ; read the letter, 
Folded it and laid it in her basket. 
Not a ray exultant flushed the calmness 
Of her mien. 

Much and mournfully I marveled, knowing 
Her mercurial, overrippling nature, 
Having seen her wealth of adoration 
For my friend. 

Long I marveled. Suddenly a shudder 
Of suspicion coldly rushed across me : 
Could it be Count Sigismund had blinded 
Her bright eyes ? 



MISTAKEN. 131 

Had indeed that handsome, fluent worldling, 
With his servile courtesies and graces — 
Counterfeits of chivalrous refinement, 
Gained her love ? 

With the morrow came my Herbert, toilworn, 
Fugitive from transatlantic turmoil, 
Eager to inhale new inspiration 
Here with her. 

After table d''hote was dance and music ; 
And the Count played Beethoven superbly. 
His admiring hearers, thronging round him, 
Thanked and praised. 

Herbert proudly happy, watched his darling 
Floating sweetly, lightly through the waltzes ; 
Heard the murmured tributes, " charming," 
" lovely," 

As she passed. 



132 MISTAKEN. 

I observed what Herbert did not notice, — 
The swift interchange of glance and whisper, 
'Twixt the Count and Emma — marked the 
sign of 

Ruin near. 

She to be his wife, and we to lose her ? \ 

Yes, I see it all ! The truth wants color. 
And she seeks a rich, illusive, 
Foreign dye. 

The aristocrat will grant no respite : 
He will push his vantage. How he lightens 
Ardent, wily looks at the new-comer. 
Her betrothed ! 

Now she stands alone there by the window. 
I must try to warn her ; time is waning : 
Yet were one rash word against her idol 
Sure defeat. 



MISTAKEN. 133 

" Emma, dear, where is your love for Herbert ? 
It is fled, do not deny; and with it 
Go the fortunes of you both. Redeem them 
Once for all ! " 

She, with ready, airy woman-logic 
Sighing, answered: "It is useless, Edward, 
To remind me I ought still to love him 
When I cannot." 

On the instant slipped the Count between us, 
Bowed urbanely, — thought me pale, a little, — 
Feared the heat and dancing might have given 
Me a headache. 

It was heartache that distressed me. Hasting 
From the house I sought the green expanses, 
Took a silent bath of dewy moonlight 
For relief. 



134 MISTAKEN. 

Soon returning, not to be long absent, 
Saw a couple coming down the pathway. 
Little space for doubt and hope. It was the 
Count and Emma. 

Swerving side wise to escape attention, 
Heard I, as they crossed me, fiery love-speech,— 
French with German accent, — and she listened 
Rapt attentive. 

Brilliant eyes suffused with heart's emotion; 
While, unheeded, through the gorge before her, 
Beamed the queenlike, silvery-gleaming Jung- 
frau's 

Mute reproaches. 

Nothing could oppose the Austrian courtier. 
Home he took his gentle western flower ; 
There in poisoned air to bloom inanely, 
Or to wither. 



MISTAKEN. 135 

Winter came and went, and spring crept after. 
Herbert lived and studied with me, grieving, 
Yet resolved that manhood's might should tri- 
umph 

Over loss. 

'Twas but three days since that Herbert entered 
Ghostlike, with a ghastly stare of horror — 
Thrust into my hand an opened missive 
From the Countess. 

" Dearest, dearest Herbert ! Like a torrent 
Held awhile in check by some obstruction, 
Till it bursts impetuous its embankment 
Fury-free, 

" Does my love for thee, which mad delusion 
Strove to conquer, foam in cruel surges, 
Dashing me within its eddies onward 
Toward despair. 



136 MISTAKEN. 

" Sigismund is not to blame : he pets me, 
Gives me gems, exhibits me in pubUc. 
If I were a doll, I should consider 
Him an angel. 

" Oh ! the future I have lost. Ennobled 
By thy presence and thy strong example ; 
Sharing all things with thee, both in action 
And repose. 

" Hast thou sorrowed, dearest, greatly sorrowed ? 
Ah ! I know thou lovedst me intensely. 
First forgive me ; then forget me, dearest, — 
Me, unworthy. 

" Furthermore, forgive me for enhancing, 
With this selfish plaint, thy burthen. Fiercely, 
Terribly my desolation rages 
To be told." 



THE POET'S MISSION. 

T T 7H0 shall dare 

To call himself a poet ? 
To crown one's self 
The monarch of the world, were less ; 
To name one's self a god 
Were little more. 

He is the messenger elect 

From Truth to Faith, 

And brings broken intelligence 

Of limitless fulfillment 

To all who patiently aspire. 

So will each poem 
Contain a few 



138 THE POET'S MISSION. 

Thought-sullied, speech-polluted drops 

From that vast sea of glory on whose shore 

His spirit walks, 

And in whose sun-flashed waves 

The Deity at intervals permits 

His soul to bathe. 



J 



DIVORCE IN MARRIAGE. 

OHN fell in love with Clara, 
And won her to be his bride ; 



And gayly dwelt with her, careless 
Of the whole huge world beside. 

Time came, when the spirit of motion 
Surprised him at his repose ; 

And sent him forth on the errand 
Where the truest manhood goes. 

And there he must search and wonder. 
There darkly, gropingly roam ; 

While Clara his wife made puddings, 
And tended their babies at home. 



I40 DIVORCE IN MARRIAGE. 

As he tried to tell his struggles 
To her who shared his heart, 

Her beautiful eyes grew vacant, 

And she thought of something apart. 

When the war in his bosom rung fainter, 
When the peace of wisdom came, 

She seemed to him strangely altered, — 
And yet she was all the same. 

It was he, who had, journeying, left her 
Where both together once stood : 

His vision had ripened, and reft her 
Of the charm of her womanhood. 

The light had died from her tresses, 

Her lips met lips of stone : 
He felt amid caresses 

That he was again alone. 



RESOLVED. 

IV /r ADE and broken, 

Many a time, alas, already 
Was the vow, which I once more am making 
Here, to-night ! 

Made and broken ! 

Every time of making, I felt sure of keeping. 

Thus did overw^eening confidence, 

By weakness fathered, 

Flatter me. 

Well may we, when ever}^ human fibre 
Thrills responsive to humanity in nature. 
Well may we, in hours of exaltation, 



142 RESOLVED, 

Rise superior to petty hindrance ; 
Sending forth our wish and our endeavor, 
Far through trusted regions, yet untrodden. 
'Tis the God internal who exalts us 
Up away from nature's blemishes. 
To a harmony without horizon. 

Sinks the day, and fades the day-born rapture. 
Then the night's blind slumber severs. 
With its blank and placid cloud-wall, 
Evening from morrow. 

May all powers grant me strength to-morrow, 

When in grisly dawn my senses open 

On this grim, inevitable duty ! 

Sadly sober are these morning wakings. 

Basely have I often been unfaithful j 

And the years were terrible in justice, 

And my life has wasted from around me. 



RESOLVED. 143 

Now the final test is offered : 
The future maddens me with smiles of parting. 
Succor me, thou Man-God here indwelling ! 
Animate this dumb, rebellious matter, 
That it fuse with thine own essence, giving 
In the whirling agony of conflict, 
Matchless might ! 



COUNSEL AND CHEER. 

'nr^URN, noblest youth, from the wrangHng 
disputants. 

Their wit is not thine, thou canst not compete 
with them ; 

Cruel and rude are their weapons. 

I saw thy cheek flush, and heard thee attempt 
to give answer : 

But thou lackest the sword of their speech, 

And their calmness of logical vision. 

Thou lovest thy cause too much to dissect it ; 

So is thy belief interwoven with error, 

And the others take note of all this to con- 
found thee. 



COUNSEL AND CHEER. 145 

Contend not with these ; thou art better than 
they. 

Thou art destined for exquisite ripeness, 

And to refute thine opponents. 

Nature in silence shall nurture thee ; 

And thou through darkness and light shalt ex- 
pand, 

Toward peace and thy cherished ideal. 

As for these others, who vex thee 

And discomfit thee, making thee doubt thine 

own worthiness, — 
Doubt even thy right to a place on the earth, 
They can call nothing their own : their fancied 

possessions 
Are stored in the outer man, and do not 

quicken the heart-throb. 
But thy thought liveth within thee ; 



146 COUNSEL AND CHEER. 

Mounts to the cheek ; leaps from the eye ; 

Quivers upon the lip. 

It is a part of thee, and every error that enters 

Is humanized into thyself, who art truth. 



A REMEMBRANCER. 

A WORN and well-known volume lay 
Before me, as I happened to stray 
Through the garret the other day: 
A book I once had reveled in, 
Then a long time had not beheld ; 
Once sweet to me as hope or sin, 
But which I would not now re-read — 
Unless compelled. 

My favorite passages deep-marked ; 

The margins thickly strewn with notes. 
Naive, fresh years ! Now I am far embarked 
On waves too rough for the nautilus-boats, 
Wherein the free 
Boy-souls push off to sea. 



148 A REMEMBRANCER. 

The enthusiasms of our youth, 

How fooKsh, yet how pure and fair! 

Tiptoe grasper after Truth, 

Vainly thou fumblest in the air 
For truer things than these were ! 



CHILD-LOVE. 

T ITTLE Alice sees me coming ; 

Rushes down the steps to meet me, 
Face bright-Ht with laughing welcome ; 

Stands on tip-toe for a kiss ; 

Slips her tiny hand in mine. 

Leads me, draws me through the door-way 
" Pa and ma are out," she whispers, 
" But they must be back directly ; 
And you'll wait a minute, worCt you ? " 

Drags me to her father's arm-chair ; 
Puts me in it 3 leaps up lightly. 
Perches on my knee, and nestles 



150 CHILD-LOVE. 

Right against my cheek, close-hanging 
Round my neck. 

She lay quietly so ; 
Except when, now and then, she raised herself 
Just far enough to peer into my face 
With a beseeching " I don't tire you, do I ? " 

In her child-eyes. 
I reassured her always with a smile 
Which came from deep within me : 
At length she trusted me and asked no longer. 

We hardly stirred while daylight faded, 
And my thoughts made sweet far journeys, 
Visiting the great world-problems, 
As I sat there 

Holding her upon my lap, 
With her soft cheek pressed against me, 

And her arms tight round my neck. 



CHILD-LOVE. 151 

Hark, the clicking of a latch-key ! 
Yes, she hears it, flutters, turns, half touches 
My forehead with her lips ; 
Jumps to her feet and out 
Into the hall. 

Thence resounds her voice of music ! 
" Papa, papa, somebody 's waiting. 
Can you guess who it can be ? 

And O, papa, 
I've had him two whole hours 

All to mysel/y 



TO A CRITIC. 
/^ CRITIC, wondrous being, thou ! 

Who, from thy seat in yon celestial 
realm, 
Surveyest, unconcerned, the passions that o'er- 
whelm 
Us low-born mortals ; and that bear 
Us onward, sidewise, backward — anywhere : 

Until our eyes, somehow, 
Begin to lose the landmarks of the Here and 
There, — 
The Then and Now. 

Ah ! glorious employment, thus to judge 
The simple doings on this silly earth; 



TO A CRITIC. 153 

And cry bravo ! at real worth ; 

And pish ! and fudge ! 
At threadbare sentiment or childish mirth, 
At any extravagance or dearth. 

Although to us the grandest fate, 
Shorn of its warfare and its love, 
Seems desolate ; 
Yet must he be inexplicably great, 
Who dwells too high above. 
For love or hate. 

Thou brandishest thy sceptre-pen, 
We humbly plod 
The devious avenues of sense ; 
For we, at best, are but poor poet-men ; 
And must revere the Critic-god 
With all due reverence. 



154 TO A CRITIC. 

Great Pluvial Jove, who pourest from thy cloud, 

Unstinted chastening on us for our good. 
Accept our thanks that thou, so stern and proud, 
Yet unto such as we are, hast allowed 

To furnish thee with thine ambrosial food. 



LOVE. 

T OVE'S praises, poets through the ages call ; 
Yet this is half unsaid, when song is 
done : 
The simplest heart has always room for one, 
It needs a soul sublime to compass all. 

A man loves woman in that he is man, 
But man loves truth, when, being ill-content 
With common manhood, he is heavenward bent. 
On gaining what of angelhood he can. 

Ye tendril-souls, to whom the scholar's hope 
Seems like a weary quest 

Among dry bones ; 
Your love is also blest, 
Since it atones 
By its intensity for want of scope ! 



TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. 



PROMETHEUS. 

/^■^OVER thy heavens, Jove, 
With cloud-mist ; 
And, Uke the boy 
Beheading thistles, 
Practice on oaks and mountain-tops. 
Yet must thou leave me 
My earth, standing ; 
And my hut thou hast not built. 
And my hearth. 
For whose glow 
Thou enviest me. 

I know nothing more pitiful 
Under the sun than ye Gods ! 



i6o PROMETHEUS. 

Ye nourish scantily 

From sacrifices 

And breath of prayer 

Your majesty; 

And would starve, were not 

Children and beggars 

Hopeful fools. 

When I was a child — 
Knew not my way — 
I turned my deluded eye 
To the sun, as if were there 
An ear to listen to my plaint, 
A heart like mine. 
To pity the afflicted. 

Who helped me 
Against the Titans' insolence? 
Who rescued me from death, 
From slavery ? 



PRO ME THE US. 1 6 1 

Hast not thyself achieved it all, 
Holy-glowing heart ? 
And glowedst, young and good, 
Deceived, thy thanks for safety 
To the sleeping one up yonder ? 

I honor thee ? For what ? 

Hast thou allayed the pains 

Ever of the oppressed? 

Hast thou soothed the tears 

Ever of the agonized ? 

Has not a man been made of me 

By Time almighty 

And Fate eternal. 

My lords and thine ? 

Didst thou fancy perchance 
I should hate life, 
Flee into deserts, 
11 



1 62 PROMETHEUS. 

Because not all 
Dream-blossoms ripened ? 

Here I sit, fashion men 

After my image, 

A race like unto me, 

To suffer, to weep. 

To enjoy and to rejoice. 

And to ignore thee, 

As I do. 



THE DIVINE. 

TV T OBLE be man, 

Helpful and good! 
For that alone 
Distinguishes him 
From all beings 
Whom we know. 



Hail to the unknown, 
Loftier beings, 
Whom we presage ! 
His example teach us 
To believe in these ! 

For unfeeling 
Is Nature : 



1 64 THE DIVINE. 

There shines the sun 
Over evil and good ; 
And for the criminal, 
As for the best, 
Gleam the moon and the stars. 

Wind and streams. 
Thunder and hail 
Rush on their way, 
And hastening past. 
Seize upon 
One after the other. 

So also fortune 

Gropes through the crowd, 

Grasps now the boy's 

Innocent curls. 

Now too the bald 

Pate of the guilty. 



THE DIVINE. 165 

By eternal, iron 
Mighty laws 
Must we all 
Accomplish the circles 
Of our existence. 

Only man alone 
Can do the impossible ; 
He distinguishes, 
Chooses, and judges ; 
He to the moment 
Granteth duration. 

He alone may 

Reward the good, 

Chastise the wicked, 

Healing and saving ; 

All that errs or is wayward. 

Usefully joining. 



1 66 THE DIVINE. 

And we venerate 
The immortals, 
As were they men, 
And did in great things, 
What the best in small ones 
Does or endeavors. 

Let the noble man 

Be helpful and good! 

Tirelessly work 

The useful, the right; 

Be our ensample 

Of those foreshadowed beings. 



MY GODDESS. 
'^ I ^O which Immortal 

The highest prize ? 
I contend with no one, 
But I award it 
To the eternally versatile, 
Always new. 

Strange daughter of Jove, 
His pet child 
Fantasy. 

For to her has he 

Conceded 

All caprices, 

Which he else reserves 



1 68 MV GODDESS. 

For himself alone, 
And has his delight 
In the hoyden. 

She may, rose-garlanded. 
With the lily-stem, 
Tread vales of flowers. 
Rule over summer birds. 
And with lips of bees 
Suck from blossoms 
Lightly nourishing dew. 

Or she may 

With flying hair 

And gloomy look. 

Sough in the wind 

Round walls of rock. 

And thousand-hued, 

Like morning and evening, 



MY GODDESS. 169 

Ever changing, 

Like rays of the moon, 

Shine upon mortals. 

Let us all 

Praise the Father ! 

The ancient, the lofty, 

Who is pleased to unite 

A so beauteous 

Unfading wife 

To mortal man. 

For to us alone 
Has he bound her 
With heaven's bond. 
And commanded her, 
In joy and sorrow, 
As a true wife 
Not to forsake. 



lyo MV GODDESS. 

All the other 
Poor generations 
Of the prolific 
Animate earth 
Rove and pasture 
In the dark pleasure 
And dim pains 
Of momentary 
Restricted life, 
Bowed by the yoke 
Of exigence. 

But to us, O joy ! 
Has he vouchsafed 
His most gifted, 
Petted daughter ; 
Lovingly meet her 
As a beloved one ! 
Give her the honor 
Of women at home ! 



MV GODDESS. 171 

And let not the old 
Stepmother Wisdom 
Presume to offend 
This gentlest of souls ! 

Yet know I her elder, 
Sedater sister, 
My quiet friend : 
O may she never. 
But with the light of life. 
Turn from me, — 
The noble incitress, 
Consolatrice Hope ! 



